


though a cuckoo sings sweet

by zlicxn



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Archivist Sasha James, Eye Trauma, M/M, Not-Them Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-05
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29217747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zlicxn/pseuds/zlicxn
Summary: “I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner later?” Jon asks, which stops Martin’s heart. Had Jon just- “You know, a date.”Martin swallows down the sputtering that wants to fight its way out of his mouth. Jon’s always seemed the type to make the first move . Of course he has, but after months of Martin thinking he was being incredibly obvious, well he’d thought maybe Jon didn’t feel the same way. He has to remind himself to breathe, “I, uh, of course."-Martin's had -not a crush, he's too old to call it a crush - on Jon for months. Then one day out of the blue, Jon asks him out. Which seems odd, except, it doesn't.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 9
Kudos: 62





	though a cuckoo sings sweet

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be a fun little 3k word thing just because I read every fic in the not-jon tag and had a massive brain worm going on, but it kind of spiraled and here we are I guess. Honestly if i stuck to just plot this would probably be a decent length, but I had to make half of it fun jmart fluff so...

It’s not a crime to unwind after a long day of work. It does feel a little like it is when you’re living at work, but it isn’t. There’s literally no reason for Martin to feel guilty as he prepares to fills his favourite mug - the one shaped like a cows head - with Sainsbury’s basics vodka and storebrand lemonade. He’s perfectly entitled to having a little drink on a Friday night. He lives here, it’s basically just like having a little drink in his own flat. It’s fine. Or it should be.

“What are you doing?” Jonathan Sims is hovering in the doorway with a deep frown and crossed arms, disapproval in every line of his face, “Are you drinking?”

“Um…” Is all Martin can really say when he’s been caught with the bottle in his hand. He shakes the bottle at Jon, not quite sure what he’s trying to accomplish. Maybe to show how little he’s poured in, but it does actually look like quite a bit’s gone. Maybe just an answer. “It’s after work. I was just-”

“At work?” Jon asks, incredulous.

“It’s after nine,” Martin says as he pours his mixer and doesn’t look at Jon, “It’s not work after five is it?” It’s his flat after everyone’s gone home, and Jon really should have gone home by now.

Jon’s jaw tenses and he tilts his head, “I, uh, I suppose not. Still it does hardly seem…” He trails off, seeming to think better of what he was about to say, “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t realise how late it was. I suppose I can’t fault you for what you do in your private time.”

Martin can feel the corners of his lips twitch and pull into a smile. He’s not even sure Jon noticed what he’d said exactly, “Yeah, I guess not,” He’s smiling into his cup of straight vodka. Probably too much, really. Probably going to be too strong, strong enough he’s already feeling a little impulsive, “Do you want any?”

Jon looks affronted, offended. Martin’s got an apology he doesn’t quite know the reason for already on the way out of his mouth when Jon’s expression softens. He bites his lip, “I’m-I was just working. I was finishing up some work and I haven’t finished. I still need, well, I need to finish it, I guess.”

And Marin gets it. Hums in agreement and that could be that. But still, “It’s quarter past nine, Jon. I’m sure whatever work you’re doing you can finish Monday. O-or you could come in tomorrow. Or Sunday.”

Jon snorts and Martin’s cheeks flush and he stares into his cow mug. There had been a bunch - each in the same style and each a different animal. He’d considered buying some for the others, some nice matching mugs for all four of them in the archives, but he couldn’t decide what animal Tim or Sasha would be. Jon would be the cat one, obviously, but the other’s may need a bit more thought. Jon’s eyes flick to the bottle of basics Martin has, “Maybe I could do with a drink.”

* * *

The last couple weeks have been rough. After Prentiss, and Gurtrude things in the archives feel like they’re a tightly coiled spring that’s been pulled, inch by inch, apart. Sasha hardly comes out of her office now, and tries her hardest to never be alone with any of them, which has put Tim in what could be very generously called, a sour mood. Jon’s been the only consistent in Martin’s life now, he’s as _dependable, stable, and kind_ as he’s ever been. And beautiful - or no. Not beautiful. _Jon was handsome,_ that’s the word. With gorgeous eyes, striking eyes. Martin could look at them for hours just drinking in the way they crinkle at the corner when they smile, the only signs of age on his boyish face. _Jon’s always looked young for his age_ , must get ID-ed all the time when he could pass for twenty three.

“Goodmorning, Martin,” Jon says with a smile wide enough to crack his face in half, and Martin can feel a fluttering in his chest as though Jon’s open smiles aren’t something he sees everyday. As though the greeting is new. _Jon always greets you when he arrives._ And he knows that, so his heart must just always beat like this when Jon comes in in the mornings.

“Morning,” Martin says back warmly.

“I was wondering if you wanted to get dinner later?” Jon asks, which stops Martin’s heart. Had Jon just- “You know, a date.”

Martin swallows down the sputtering that wants to fight its way out of his mouth. _Jon’s always seemed the type to make the first move_. Of course he has but after months of Martin thinking he was being incredibly obvious, well he’d thought maybe Jon didn’t feel the same way. He has to remind himself to breathe, “I, uh, of course. That sounds-”

“Great!” Jon beams at him, his eyes have always been striking - one blue and one brown - wide set in his soft face, “I could pick you up from yours, or we can head off straight from work?”

“T-that sounds good. I’d want to, uh, you can pick me up. Yeah,” Martin tries to force his numb lips into a smile, or something resembling one to show the sheer joy he’s feeling, but the shock like writing worms in his stomach fights back. He hopes Jon doesn’t take the grimace to heart. “Just give me some, uh, time to get changed and all that.”

“How’s half seven sound?” Jon asks and Martin doesn’t trust himself to speak again so he just nods with a strangled, ‘Mhm,’ sound. Jon looks overjoyed.

The second Jon leaves for the break room, Tim descends upon him, looking happier than he has since Prentiss. He looks around as though he doesn’t know there's no one nearby, and stage whispers dramatically, “Did that just happen?”

Martin’s face is hot,“Shut up, Tim.”

“No, Martin,” There’s a scrape of chair legs on linoleum as Tim pivots to face Martin, “Did that seriously just happen?”

“I just got asked out on a date? Yes, Tim,” Martin says as though he’s not also asking himself the same question. He refuses to see whatever manic grin is on Tim’s face. “Y’know it's rude that you’d act all surprised.”

“No, no,” Tim grins at him in a way Martin can feel because he is still determinedly not looking at Tim even though the man has leaned in so far he can feel his breath, “Not that, just. Jon. Dancing around each other for months then suddenly... well, I guess nothing will make you actually act on your feelings like a near death experience.”

Martin hums and tries for the fifth time to read the first line of the statement he was meant to be researching. That was probably it. It’s not been that long since Prentiss after all and well. So perhaps that had been the thing to make Jon realise he should finally get a move on and ask Martin out already. “Yeah.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t just do it, I mean…” Tim gestures vaguely, “I know he seemed the type to make the first move but, how long can you really wait.”

* * *

Martin fishes out another mug from the cupboard and fills it with the cheap vodka and lemonade. It’s all he really has, “Sorry about this. I know it tastes terrible-”

“It’s fine, Martin,” Jon cuts him off as he takes his mug, “To be honest I could never taste the difference.”

“Really?” He asks, shocked, Jonathan Sims always seemed like a bit of a snob, Martin had expected him to be one of those people who only drinks top shelf whiskey or something else expensive Martin had never gotten the chance to develop a pallet for.

“Mm,” Jon hums, “I’ve never been much of a vodka drinker.”

Ah, so maybe he was a top shelf whiskey kind of guy, “Oh?”

Jon winces at a sip he’s taken and when he speaks he sounds pained, “I-I think it’s a little, er, strong.”

Martin hides his smile behind his own sip and again tries to hide his wince at the taste, “You know I think you’re right.”

“Well…” Jon frowns into his cup considering something, and then he presses it to his mouth and takes a large mouthful, his eyes screwing shut as he swallows. His whole body shakes when he gasps, making a grabbing motion that takes Martin far too long to realise means ‘pass me the lemonade’. Martin scrambles to do so, unscrewing the lip for Jon so he can drink the chaser straight from the bottle. He gulps it down with a grimace, “Sorry about that. I can buy another bottle if you need.”

“It’s alright Jon, I really don’t mind, but are you okay?” 

“Yes, sorry. Just needed to make room,” Jon explains and he pours the lemonade into his cup, refilling it. What a ridiculous man. He shakes his head and tries to plow through his drink. It’s not so bad if you sip it. And take breaks.

“So,” He tries again because Jon never actually answered his question, “What do you drink?”

“Oh, erm,”Jon shrugs, “Gin.”

“Ah,” But that doesn’t answer Martin’s real secret question, so he presses, “Nice stuff, or store brand?”

“Hm,” Jon takes his time sipping on his drink. It must still be a little strong because it still looks pretty full when he takes it away from his mouth, “Usually something expensive. I just think it’s a little sad. Drinking store brand on your own and all. It’d make me feel like an alcoholic.”

Oh. Martin shifts his weight around his feet looking hard at the ground because, well, ouch. Jon seems to realise what he’s said almost instantly because there’s the heavy sound of a mug being set on the counter top and in his periphery, Martin can see Jon’s head in his hands as he leans on the counter.

“What I meant,” Jon starts again, “I didn’t mean that I think- It’s. Hm.”

“It’s alright,” Martin says because he knows Jon didn’t mean it even if it does sting. It’s alright. It hurt, now it’s time to move on.

“No, sorry. Can I...let me try again,” Jon insists, “I’m not much of a, uh, I rarely drink when I am on my own, or well I guess I rarely drink full stop recently. When I do, it’s just a glass to help me, er, help me sleep. When I’m particularly stressed. Actually finishing a bottle is rare enough that I find I can spend a little more. I have no - well, I know you may have your own budget and your spending habits aren’t - they’re none of my…” Jon sighs deeply, reigning in his rambling. He pauses and his face is screwed to one side as he stares at the floor, “I enjoy drinking, mostly with company, but I rarely have company. So, I can buy expensive gin.”

It feels a little overly personal to hear from Jonathan Sims. It makes Martin want to invite him to come out with him, Tim, and Sasha when they go out next, but he has no idea when that could be. They haven’t gone out since the whole Prentiss thing, and Martin’s been a little reluctant to leave the Archives at all, “I didn’t used to drink alone much either,” Martin gives his own confession to match, “Since Prentiss, it’s been, well. Just helps.”

Jon’s eyes are fixed on him, deep and dark and the colour of the local honey he sometimes spends extra on because he hears it’s better for you. His eyebrows are pinched and he surveys every inch of Martin with concern, “You haven’t been - I’m sorry, have you been, well, drinking _a lot_ recently?”

Oh god. Jon thought he really was an alcoholic, and yes he can hear the words replaying in his head. ‘It helps’ is exactly the thing someone with a problem sounds like, “I, uh, no. I realise how-how that sounds. I just, I’d normally go out for just beer with um, Tim, or, well Tim and Sasha, but recently…”

“Ah,” Jon’s tight, thin lipped smile to the floor makes Martin’s heart squeeze hard, “I know I must be a poor substitute for a drinking companion, but well. I just want to make sure you’re doing alright.”

And now Martin feels like a complete dickhead. The guilt now knowing that well, Jon might have actually said yes. At the time Tim had said Jon wasn’t much for ‘fun’ and Martin had believed him, assumed that maybe Tim had asked him before when they had worked in research together and been rejected -maybe even several times- but it seems a little clear now that they should have at least tried. He’s let the silence stretch, drinking as much of his own incredibly strong drink as he can stand in one go. Not doing much for the image of him not having a drinking problem is he? He swallows, and speaks slowly because the words haven’t formed in his brain yet and he’s flying by the seat of his pants a little here, “You’re not a, uh, ‘poor substitute’ or anything. It’s - you’re nice to talk to. We just assumed-”

“That I wouldn’t want to join you,” Jon finishes for him and takes his own slow drink in deliberate silence, “I suppose I wouldn’t have agreed to it. I’ve been - since moving into the archives I have been a little on edge, I suppose. A lot of work to get done.”

Martin hums.

* * *

“A Stella for me, aswell,” Jon says to the waiter and that’s a bit surprising. _Jon orders beers all the time when you hang out with Tim and Sasha_ , so Martin doesn’t know why he’s surprised at all. He can see it clearly, Jon with a beer in his hand and blue eyes crinkled as he laughs at a joke Tim’s just made, one that Sasha shakes her head at disapprovingly though she wants to laugh too. Jon’s attention slides from the waiter’s face to Martin’s smoothly,“So, why the Magnus Institute?”

“Oh,” Martin takes a moment to think about it, to find an answer that isn’t just ‘I needed the money’, “Well, I just think it’s all very interesting. Paranormal, uh, things. It’s really, uh, interesting research.”

Jon nods at him unblinkingly, “That’s why you got your masters in Parapsychology, right? An, uh, _interest_ in the paranormal?”

Martin laughs lightly, ears burning, “I, erm, I suppose. Yeah.”

“What was it like?” Jon asks, “I know my bachelors was, well, mostly spent in some pub or at the SU nights. Bit of a culture shock going into my masters.”

“Mm…” Martin hums to buy a bit more time for another lie. It's easy to picture a younger, nineteen year old Jon doing shots on a Monday, knowing full well he’s got to be in at nine the next day and is going to be blinking sleep from blue eyes all through lectures filled with regret but not enough to stop him from doing it again the next week. It is also quite easy as well to imagine him, just a few years older, chewing on the end of a pencil and very grateful that the library is open twenty four hours as he furiously scribbles notes, brown eyes bloodshot in the fluorescent lights. A person can be two things, Martin supposes, “Mine was similar. Lots of parties in your undergraduate-” At least that’s what he’s heard, “-especially first year. Then you’re in your masters and you have to, um, buckle down.”

Jon smiles at him with a look that wouldn’t be out of place on a shark and Martin can’t believe he’d ever thought to get Jon a cat shaped mug. 

Dinner is nice. It’s nice. Nerves keep him from fully enjoying the night and Jon seems to have an uncanny ability to press him on lies, asking about school, and degrees, and his age and all Martin can really do is lie, lie, and lie more so it’s not great first date conversation. It’s no surprise though, it’s a first date so it’s inevitably going to be awkward and stressful. Jon walks him to the tube station at the end of the night and holds his hands just a little bit too tight.

“I had fun tonight,” He says, thumbs pressed into Martin’s palms.

Fun wasn’t exactly the right word but after being so into Jon for so long Martin’s not going to deny the butterflies the chance at a second date, “I did too. Did you want to, maybe…?”

“We can do dinner again,” Jon comes in closer sending Martin’s pulse racing, “Friday.”

Should he take the leap? One small movement and just catch Jon’s lips with his own? Fulfill that aching fantasy he’s held onto for so long and finally kiss Jonathan Sims. No, next time. Friday. Martin says it, confirming it’s real, “Friday.”

* * *

“You know you don’t have to be so...” Stressed? Committed? Martin doesn’t know exactly what to call it so he just leaves it unsaid, “Sasha isn’t. I mean, don’t get me wrong she’s been working hard-”

“Working hard?” Jon almost scoffs, “I’ve hardly seen her here past seven.”

Martin raises his eyebrows not sure if he should actually say anything, but what the hell, “Jon, you do realise that’s two hours past when she’s meant to finish right?”

There’s something like regret and satisfaction he gets from the affronted look Jon gives him. A feeling in his stomach that doesn’t quite know what it wants to be until Jon slumps back into the counter with a resigned, “Fair enough.” 

Satisfaction it is then, “Why are you here then? Now. Y’know, quarter past nine, and-and you had that cot, which thank you for letting me use it-” Jon waves his thanks off while he drinks, “B-but well, if Sasha James, Head Archivist and all that, is going home at seven maybe you should too.”

Jon hums noncommittally. He taps his mug absently and Martin tries to catch the tune. The lights seem dimmer. “You know Elias offered me that job. Head Archivist.”

Martin blinks at him, a loud ‘really?’ on his face. Jon makes a loud ‘mmhmm’ sound without elaborating at all. It’s like wringing water out of a damp cloth. “Did you turn it down then?”

“I didn’t think I had enough experience,” Jon shrugs, “Well. I was going to say yes actually, but the way he acted when I told him I wasn’t sure…” He shakes his head, “He told me he liked my ‘work ethic’ and at the time I assumed he was making some kind of, well, I wasn’t interested in the job if it involved some kind of _favour_ for Elias.”

“Jesus,” It’s barely a breath because if Elias was like that with Jon, “You, well, Jon you don’t think-”

“No, no, sorry,” Jon says quickly, “I-I believe I misinterpreted Elias’s meaning. Seeing the state of this place I’m certain ‘work ethic’ was a euphemism for ‘willing to do unpaid overtime’.”

“Oh, uh, right.” Martin drinks, Jon watches him. “He was right then, I guess.”

Jon sighs, “I suppose.”

Martin feels warmer, and maybe it’s the company or the drink but it is nice either way. He can’t help but laugh, “Christ, imagine if you were Head Archivist. Don’t think you’d ever actually leave.”

“Sorry,” Jon’s voice sounds near laughter too, “You’re the one living here at the moment.”

“Only because you had a bed here,” Martin points out, “If I wasn’t staying here would you even bother going home tonight?”

Jon shrugs, “I hadn’t planned on leaving yet anyway. Time gets away from me a bit. I thought it was six.”

“Six?” Martin asks, incredulous. No wonder he had been so shocked at Martin drinking, “How do you lose three hours?”

“There aren’t exactly windows down here,” Jon points out, angling himself away defensively. The windows may be a good point if Jon didn’t also have a phone, a laptop, and the big clock on the wall to keep track of time for him. And maybe if it was less than three whole, entire hours. “I felt a bit tired, came in here to get something to keep me a bit more awake. Tea, or, well it seemed a bit late for coffee.”

“You’re unbelievable.” Martin can only shake his head.

* * *

The warm lighting in the breakroom only serves to make it look even older, even shabbier, and even grimmier. Martin regrets using the microwave on the meal deal pasta he’s gotten from Tescos because now it tastes like everything that’s been in that microwave since it was last cleaned, which must sit somewhere between when Gurtrude was Head Archivist and never. He should have just eaten it cold.

“So…” Tim slides onto the plastic chair across from him on the tiny breakroom table. It’s a good thing that Sasha hasn’t been taking lunches recently and Jon always takes lunch away from the institute, because there’s no way this table could fit more than two people. “How was it?”

Martin chews unhurriedly. He’d known Tim would ask, Tim had been very invested in Martin’s relationship. He swallows. “It was,” Martin decides not to lie, “Alright.”

“Uh oh,” Tim grimaces, “Really that bad?”

“No, it wasn’t bad,” Martin needs to get that across because it was a perfectly lovely date, really. Jon had insisted on paying, they held hands, and they had almost kissed. It was all perfectly nice. “I think it’s… well just not how i pictured it. I don’t know, maybe I had this idea in my head of what I wanted a date to look like, then just projected Jon into it. Like I just put him there and now I’m seeing the real, well, the real person and he is nice. He’s very nice...”

Tim’s eyebrows almost reach his hairline with how far he’s raised them, hearing the unsaid ‘but’. “So you just built the whole thing up in your head, now reality’s here to ruin it?”

“Something like that,” Martin mumbles at his pasta, “I don’t know, somehow I imagined him so differently than what I know he’s like.”

Tim just nods, tucking into his sandwich. Martin doesn’t know how this happened really. He knows Jon. Knows he drinks beer, and chats smoothly, and is always in and out exactly on time, so why did all his fantasies around Jon involve long silences? Walking at night not speaking, or letting Jon ramble on about some random fact he’s learned or some classic literature he’s recently read and hated, or about whatever statement he’s been looking into. Those don’t sound like the Jon who talks about the latest Marvel movie loudly in the hall and jokes easily and freely. Moreover, the date he had was nicer, a more ideal kind of first date than hearing Jon ramble his opinions on a book Martin hasn’t read or facts on something he’s never heard of, but there’s a part of him that would love to hear Jon talk about microscopic organisms while he just watches.

“Do you ever forget about Jon’s eyes?” Martin asks. Tim gives him a questioning look and he tries to clarify, “You know. He’s got two different ones. Blue. Brown. I always forget.”

Tim nods, swallowing, “Heterochromia, yeah. I guess you do just expect them to be one or the other.”

* * *

“What?” Jon frowns at him as though he can’t see what’s wrong. Maybe he can’t. “I wasn’t planning on being here all night, a coffee would have me vibrating in my seat until well past two.”

“Jon, you know that’s not what I’m talking about,” Martin says and Jon doesn’t seem to have an argument for that.

“I thought it was only six,” Is a weak excuse and it’s clear Jon knows because he says it in an equally weak voice. “It’s Friday. Not like I had anywhere to be tomorrow anyway.”

“Maybe,” Martin presses carefully, “you should?”

“Come on, Martin. I’m-” Jon breaths out a short laugh, “-I’m far too old to be ‘going out’ or anything.”

Martin tries to picture Jon - greying hair, forehead wrinkles, glasses on a little chain around his neck- in a club. Even in his mind Jon looks irritable, yelling that the music is too loud and there are far too many people anyway. Martin pictures him sequestered in some corner on his phone, sipping a gin and tonic all night with a scowl on his face, it’s enough to make him laugh. Just a short snort of laughter but Jon catches it.

“What? I am too old for dancing, or-or any of it. Never really had much of a taste for it back in my university days anyway,” Jon argues, clearly thinking Martin was laughing at him for thinking he was too old, which. Well.

“How old are you?” Martin asks, because if he had to guess he would have said mid to late thirties. Oldest one in the archives certainly.

“Er,” Jon looks into his nearly empty mug and says, with all the reluctance of pulling teeth, “Twenty-eight.”

“Twenty eight!” Martin nearly yells in Jon’s sheepish face.

“Yes, yes. I know,” Jon rolls his eyes, “My hair’s been going grey for a while and, well, I’m not going to pretend that there isn’t a certain amount of respect I get in an academic institution I wouldn’t otherwise. Being young, being-” and he gestures generally to his face, all sharp angles and dark skin, “Let’s just say I don’t really bother correcting anyone’s assumptions.”

“No, I-I get it,” Martin says even though he only gets half of it and he doesn’t want Jon to know he understands any of it, “I mean, not ‘get it’ get it, but... Um, I understand.”

Jon smiles -not at his cup, not at the floor - but at him. Martin’s got this warm fire in his chest, still only eating at kindling that Jon’s feeding it. The first match struck that night when, scared and tired and more alone than he had felt in years, Martin had recounted his story to the others. His statement about Jane Prentiss. And without hesitating a moment or needing to be asked, Jon - his rude and aggressive colleague who Martin could have sworn hated him - offered him a cot he didn’t know existed. A place he could be, well, at least where he could _feel_ safe.

It’s a fire he’s sure he’s going to need to put out eventually, but while it gently smoulders he’ll let it stay.

“Thank you,” Jon says.

* * *

Martin walks into Sasha’s office the same he does every day when he can’t hear her recording statements, holding a mug of lemon tea with honey. This time he doesn’t knock, though. She’s been cooped up in this room since before they came in and it’s well past two now and Jon and Tim have been egging him on to see what she’s upto. She hasn’t exactly been hiding the fact that she thinks that one or all of them have something to do with Gurtrude’s murder. Tim’s got five pounds on her having a full on red strings conspiracy board in there. There isn’t, just Sasha, side on to him with her laptop screen angled so he can see a chat pulled up.

He manages to make out the top says ‘Jon’ with a little green heart next to it - which is odd because that’s the same colour heart as the one next to Jon’s name in his phone contacts _but green is his favourite colour_ \- before Sasha jumps hard and she slams her laptop closed, whipping around with guilt evident on her face, “Martin! What are you - um, oh! Tea.”

“Yeah, tea,” Martin says, holding out the tea in his hand, trying to hand it to her without getting any closer. Like she’ll jump again, or bite. “Uh, sorry was that… were you, were you messaging Jon?”

Sasha’s eyes go wider and guiltier and she almost fumbles the tea. Would have dropped it had Martin let go. “I - yes. That was, just, asking him a favour.”

Huh. So Sasha and Jon were messaging, and she had a heart next to his name too. Well, it’s not as though he and Jon have had any kind of talk about anything, they’ve only had about four dates now - if you counted that time Jon had walked him home and stayed for two hours - and _Jon’s always been a bit of a flirt, especially with Tim_ but Martin can feel a little pit in his stomach, a gnawing sense of not-enough expanding its nest in him. He tries to not let it affect his voice, “Well, okay. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Actually,” Sasha’s lip is in between her teeth, “You’ve gotten… close to Jon, right? Recently.”

“Yeah?” Martin is absolutely not being some kind of messenger here if Sasha’s going to go all primary school on him and ask if Jon really liked her or something. Absolutely not.

“Do you know why he always goes to Madame Tussauds on his lunch break?” Sasha asks with hard, deliberate eye contact. Eye contact that surely just got her a good long look at confusion spreading deeper and deeper on his face.

“No. What are you talking about?”

She sighs, slumping back in her chair. She looks awful. Worm scars on her face and neck that haven’t healed right, lines creasing her forehead harder than he’s ever seen them, and bags under her eyes like she hasn’t had a proper night’s sleep in a month. Martin’s not got a good, proper look at her since she came back and he’s not realised - too busy with his own clearly miserable dating life - that she hadn’t been coping. Of course she hadn’t. “I-I’ve seen him there. Ran into him a - uh, a few times actually. I think he’s there every lunch and I don’t know why.”

Madame Tussauds every lunch. Every lunch. The idea of uncanny valley wax celebrities have always made him shiver coupled with it being an expensive tourist trap means Martin has never personally been inside but he can only imagine the appeal would wear off after the first trip. But how did Sasha know? “Have you been following him?”

“Not following,” She says evenly like someone who is about to say ‘technically…’

Martin doesn’t let her, “No, have you been stalking him? All of us?”

Sasha swallows, “Listen Martin, I know. I know, but-”

“I can’t believe you,” Martin feels anger like bile climb his throat and he tries to swallow it down, “Sasha, you know us. You know we’d never… that we couldn’t. None of us hurt Gurtrude, and none of us want to hurt you, I-I understand that you’re -” Why is he sympathising? Placating? “-going through a rough time, but you know you can’t do this. If you, if you do this again I’ll tell Jon, and Tim. We’ll go to Elias.”

“Right,” Sasha turns away from him, “Right. Thanks for the tea.”

Martin wants to say something. To yell, or to comfort, but he just backs away and closes the door behind himself.

* * *

Martin blinks, “For what?”

And Jon, with his empty mug tilted precariously on his fingers, shrugs, “For-for this I guess. The drink. The talk. The, uh, the company.”

“Thank you too, then,” Martin says, “This your way of saying goodbye?”

The bulbs blink above them and in the sickly yellow light Jon’s lips thin and he considers Martin carefully. Considers each of the freckles on his face and each of the hairs on his chin he’d missed this morning. Each crease of his lips. Or maybe he just looks at Martin and Martin is the only one considering Jon and his lips. It’s a long moment before Jon says, “It doesn’t have to be.”

That knocks the breath out of him. He doesn’t want to, but there’s a scared part of him that forces the words past his lips, “Jon, it’s nearly ten.”

“Right. Buses run for the next hour and I can always take the tube if I must,” Jon points out. He pulls himself up to sit on the counter like it’s some kind of statement. “Unless you want me to leave?”

“No.” He really doesn’t.

Jon grins at him again and really it’s not fair that he can do this to Martin. He holds out his empty mug and Martin takes it, trying this time to pour a drinkable drink. “You know,” Jon says, “I don’t think I’ve done something like this in years. Just drinking in a, uh, a friend’s kitchen and talking.”

A friend. Were they friends? Martin had hoped. He watches the lemonade fizz into the mug, waiting until the head dies down so he can finish filling it, “Years?”

Jon hums, “Not since university, I think. Mostly with Georgie but when we broke up well…”

Georgie? Short for Georgia, or Georgina, or affectionate for George? Martin’s mouth is dry and he needs to pour himself a new drink so he can drink it rather than ask because how is he going to ask that? _‘Oh, Georgie. Is that a man or a woman because I could never tell if you were straight or not and I am definitely not asking for any alternative purposes. I’m gay by the way. Just unrelated.’_ No, instead he just hands Jon his drink. He can be tactful, just ask questions about them. “What happened?”

“Thank you,” Jon mumbles as he accepts the cup, “Nothing special. Drifted. Things ended a bit messy and, when you’re together that long, well, all my friends were her friends.”

Her. “Aw, that’s… I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Jon shrugs, “Drinking cheap vodka on a countertop has just made me a bit nostalgic, I guess. Almost feel like we should be playing Kings, or never have I ever.”

“We could,” Martin says because he’s not immune to trying to pry every bit of information out of Jon he can, “I don’t have any cards for Kings, but you don’t exactly need anything for never have I ever.”

“Ah, I’ve never been much fun in those games,” Jon says with a little swing of his legs, “No crazy stories or wild, uh, sex acts.”

The idea of discussing any kind of sex acts with jon especially while they were still at work sends a fierce blush to Martin’s cheeks, “I mean, everyone has something.”

Jon pauses, lips pursed and then says carefully,“I was in a band. But I doubt you would have asked.”

A band? Martin needs to start stepping on those flames because they’ve just burst a light in his heart.“No. I, um, wouldn’t have.”

* * *

It’s cold sitting on a park bench outside Madame Tussauds, the deep chill of the wind easily blowing through Martin’s thin jacket. He’s been waiting outside for fifteen minutes, trying to catch a glimpse of Jon, see if Sasha was right. Or if she was even telling the truth about seeing him here at all. God. He rubs his eyes, his cheeks - stubble scratching his hand. Was he just as bad as Sasha? Worse, maybe. He could hardly sleep last night for the anticipation, the jealousy in his chest because, why would Jon be visiting a wax museum at all?

Just when Martin’s ready to give up, call it a day and tell Sasha that seeing Jon at Madame Tussauds once doesn’t mean he’s acting suspicious and doesn’t mean he spends every lunch break with a bunch of wax figures, Jon appears. He’s in his nice coat, arms buried in the pockets and face tight against the cold when he exits. Martin almost just watches him leave before he remembers why he’s here and jogs after.

“Jon!” He calls after him but Jon doesn’t seem to hear him, so he calls louder, “Oi! Jon!”

Jon stops dead in the tide of tourists walking against him and looks over his shoulder, “Oh, Martin.”

“Yeah,” Martin feels out of breath from even his short jog, “Hi, Jon. Didn’t, um, didn’t expect to see you here. How are you doing?”

“What are you doing here?” Jon asks, which is fair.

“Uh,” Martin’s prepared a whole cover story about the best sandwich in London, he even looked up cafes nearby he could pretend he’s just come from, like the forty minute journey out here was for a panini, but this is Jon. If he expects honesty, then shouldn’t he be honest? “I was, well. Sasha mentioned you spent some lunches here, and I just, I wanted to know if she was… or I wanted to know why.”

“Have you been following me?” Jon asks.

Martin clenches his jaw, “I wasn’t following you. I promise, Sasha just made it seem like something suspicious and she’s been a bit odd since Prentiss. I know this isn’t great, but well…” He’s got to bring it up, “I saw Sasha’s messages to you.”

“Sasha’s messages?” Jon asks with genuine confusion on his face, “What messages?”

“I didn’t actually see any messages. Just- well, just her name for you had a, um, heart next to it,” Martin can feel himself sounding like a crazy person even as he’s talking, “I know we haven’t talked about what we are exactly, so it’s fine. But I just wish I knew, and I wish you would tell me why you’re at Madame Tussauds all the time. Everything’s just a little, well…”

Jon’s expression is unreadable, nodding along while Martin speaks. There’s a long pause while Jon seems to be thinking, then, “Martin, what’s my name in your contacts?”

“I don’t see why-” Martin starts but it’s like the nagging part of his brain he’d decided to ignore finally speaks loud enough that he can’t pretend it isn’t there anymore, “Jon. With a green heart.”

“And the heart Sasha used. What colour is it?”

Martin sighs, “Green. God I’m so stupid. I’m so stupid.”

“Hey,” Jon’s hands are on his shoulders, squeezing him tightly, “It’s not stupid, you just didn’t want to believe she would do that. I know it might be easier to believe that I’d betray your trust than Sasha, but I would never, Martin. Do you understand?”

“Yeah. Yes. Sorry,” Martin can feel himself shaking. Somehow following, stalking them feels less personal than that she’s seen his messages. She’s read all the things he’s said to Jon. The personal things. The things he’s said about his mother. “God. I am sorry, Jon. I’m really sorry. I trust you. I promise.”

Jon looks at him, the same wide shark smile on his face. His eyes look wet, like he’s tearing up a little. His brown eye lets one tear slip, “I’m glad.”

Martin doesn’t ask about Madame Tussaud’s again. He’s interrogated Jon enough.

* * *

“I don’t exactly seem like the type, do I?” Jon laughs, “I, uh, I sang.”

Martin grins at him. He can’t quite see it but he can almost hear it, “You do have a great voice.”

“Maybe I should be the one recording statements.”

“That’s probably why Elias wanted you to take the job,” Martin jokes, “He just wanted to hear your beautiful voice.”

“My beautiful voice?” Jon asks, voice huskier and deeper than normal and Martin hopes Jon thinks the redness in his face is due to the alcohol. Martin’s got to get Jon to sing for him, he needs to hear what that sounds like, “I didn’t know you thought my voice was beautiful. I’m very flattered.”

Jon knows what he’s doing to Martin, he must. But Martin can be subtle about this, “Yeah. It’s - I mean you’ve got, it’s a good speaking voice. So I can only imagine what it must, or what your singing sounds like.”

“Do you want me to sing for you?” Jon asks and no, Martin wasn’t subtle. Not even a little. But honestly, how is he meant to think, or speak, or breath with Jon doing that voice.

“Only if you want to,” He says quickly.

“I haven’t done this, haven’t sung in a very long time I will warn you,” Jon says, “Lord, I don’t even know what to sing.”

“Anything,” Martin says.

“I don’t listen to much music at the moment,” Jon looks at the floor, “I don’t think I know the words to any songs.”

“I can pull some up? Find a lyric video on Youtube.” Martin can hear how eager his voice sounds and it’s honestly disgusting.

“What? Like karaoke?”

“Yeah, basically,” Martin’s already pulling out his phone. He can’t stop himself.

“I think, actually, I might make you wait and take me to real karaoke,” Jon smirks at him, “Make up for all the nights you didn’t invite me to drinks.”

“Oh. Yeah, I’m sure Tim and Sasha would love that,” Martin definitely is imagining the tightening of Jon’s lips when he brings up Tim and Sasha. Definitely. And also reading way too much into it.

“You’re all paying. As an apology,” Jon says and Martin laughs. They’d have all paid to see Jon sing. Hell, they probably would have all paid to get Jon to go out with them at all. Tim would love to see Jon off his tits. Jon swings his legs and pushes himself off of the countertop, as he lands he sways dangerously steadying himself with an outstretched hand, “Uh, oh.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I think,” Jon straightens himself, “No, I am quite certain. I am very drunk.”

* * *

“Thanks for telling us about this sooner,” Tim says bitterly for what must be the fifth time that day. He’s angry and it oscillating that anger between Martin and Sasha, clearly not sure who he should be madder at.

“I didn’t realise they were my messages at first,” Martin explains. He’s tried explaining it but Tim needs to be angry right now. That’s fine. He’ll get over it.

“Yeah, but you knew she was stalking your boyfriend,” Tim spits back, “Didn’t think that was relevant? Didn’t want to share that with the class?”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Tim seeths.

They’re all sat in the breakroom at the end of the day waiting for Sasha to come out of her office. Martin wishes they could talk about something, anything. Just have a normal conversation with each other, but the air is thick with anticipation, and Tim’s leg bouncing is shaking the breakroom table. Martin had convinced him not to go to Elias yet, because Elias would certainly fire her. Tim had said that would be the point, but agreed she deserved a warning first so here they are. Waiting for Sasha’s door to open.

It’s another fifteen minutes of awkward, dull silence. Tim vibrating the table, Jon on his phone next to Martin, and Martin picking at a hole in the couch and poking the yellow foam beneath. Then, finally, they hear the slow creak of Sasha’s office door opening and the soft shuffle of feet creeping over to their desks.

“Are you fucking serious.” Tim whispers, getting up as silently as he can. He pokes his head out of the doorway, “Fucking hell Sasha, really?”

“Tim!” Comes the squeak of Sasha’s voice, “I-I thought you’d gone home.”

“No, we were all waiting for you to finish so we could have a conversation about exactly this.” Tim wants to yell, clearly, but he’s managed to restrain himself enough to keep it at a bitter growl.

“We?” Sasha wonders nervously into view. She’s chewing already ragged bleeding fingernails, ducking her head and looking around at them frantically.

“Yes Sasha,” Martin gets up from the couch, “All three of us. We’re worried about you. And not just that, we - well, we know you’ve been going through a lot but-”

“But that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to-to _stalk_ us and read our fucking messages,” Tim finishes for him, much harsher than Martin would have said but maybe she needed a bit of a talking to. “You’re like a different person now, and honestly, Sasha? I hate this new person.”

“I haven’t been stalking, and how did you-” Sasha catches herself, “Whatever you think, I promise it’s not that bad. I’m just checking. Verifying.”

“You don’t think you should leave the investigation to, I don't know,” Tim pretends to think, “The police?”

Sasha bounces on the balls of her feet, “I-I… Tim. Gurtude died. Was _murdered_. In that office.” She points to her office with a shaking finger, “By the time the police solve it, if they even bother to try, it could already be too late.”

“Do you think we would kill you?” Jon asks, “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Sasha says desperately, “Why did anyone want Gurtrude dead? I just need proof-”

“How about this proof,” Tim’s fingernails are buried in his palms and his restraint buckles. He shouts, “You know me! We were friends for years. Do you think I’d kill anyone? Do you think I’d ever hurt you?”

There’s silence, just the sound of Tim catching his breath after his outburst. Then Sasha says, soft and hurt, “Were?”

Tim’s shoulders slump and he steps to her, hands flying up to hug her on instinct but he lowers them just before touching her, “Sash. I - we all care about you, but right now? No, we’re not friends. I want to be, but Sasha...”

“You need to trust us,” Jon cuts in.

Sasha nods, staring unblinkingly at the ceiling - clearly trying to keep in the tears building in her eyes.

“Knock, knock,” Elias’s voice cuts clean and clear from the doorway, “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” He must know he is, walking into a room with Tim hovering next to an almost crying Sasha with Martin and Jon stood awkwardly by the couch. And depending on how long he was in the archives - silent creep - he probably heard a decent amount of the conversation. “I’ve just come down to inform Sasha that the police have agreed to allow you access to the surveillance footage from the day Gurtrude… died. I know you’ve been hounding me about it so I thought I would deliver it in person.”

Sasha’s eyes flickery guiltily to each of them in turn.

“Go on,” Tim sighs, “Maybe this will be enough to finally convince you. Then can you please go back to acting like Sasha?”

She nods stiffly, turning to Elias and accepting the flash drive he holds out to her.

* * *

“How?” Martin rushes next to Jon, trying to steady him on his feet, “Already? You-you had two drinks.”

“Believe me,” Jon grumbles, “I am just as surprised. I don’t exactly have a high tolerance, but this is…”

“Completely ridiculous?”

“Embarrassing.”

Martin shakes his head. Jon seems to have a good grasp on his words, not slurring at all, but he is wobbly at best. His hands shift from holding the counter for balance to grasping onto Martin’s shirt and it’s really a gift he’s in no fit state to see how that’s affecting Martin. Really, it’s a wonder he can get any words out at all, even if they’re shaky coming out of his mouth, “Jon, have you- how much have you eaten today?”

Jon licks his lips, looking out of the door, like the answers are written on the wall, but just slightly too small to read, “Well, I didn’t sleep much last night, so this morning I-I got a coffee. The cafe had a, um, a deal on baked goods with a large coffee so I got one. That was breakfast.”

“What was it?” Martin asks.

“A cookie. One of the large ones,” He adds at Martin’s look and he tries to demonstrate exactly how large but that means letting go of Martin and he has to take a step back and catch himself. “Chocolate chip.”

“Right,” Martin shifts to get a better grip on Jon. It’s unfortunate that he’s so much shorter. Makes it difficult to get an arm under his shoulder, “Now, what did you have for lunch?”

“Uh…”

“Really?” Martin cannot believe him, “Was that all you had to eat all day?”

Jon looks away, “I had tea. That, that counts for-”

“No, it doesn’t Jon.” Christ, what a stupid, idiotic, ridiculous man Martin’s decided to have a crush on. Not a crush, just feelings. Thoughts about. Doesn’t matter. “Okay. We’re going to get you something to eat.”

“Martin, it’s fine.”

“No, it’s not,” Martin’s already leading him out. Jon stumbles a bit at first but seemingly gets his feet under himself quickly and with Martin’s help they’re walking at, well a slow pace, but a manageable one, “Now, there’s a Kebab shop just down the street.”

“Do we, uh, do we have to?” Jon asks, sounding like he might be sick, “Just the, erm, meat is me statement. I don’t think-”

“We can just get chips.” Martin suggests, his own stomach turning at the thought of meat now too.

“That, that sounds fine.”

* * *

The tape clicks off and Sasha eyes them both, jaw set. Statement of Lucy Cooper, regarding something replacing her mother, something that sounds like the same thing from Amy Patel’s statement. Scary, yes, but ultimately why are they listening to an old tape Gurtrude Robinson recorded after being called into a secret after hours meeting? When his phone had pinged with a message from a new group chat with just him, Tim, and Sasha asking them to come to her office at eight, Martin had thought he had misremembered Jon’s birthday. Not that there was going to be secret after hours work.

They had been reluctant to go anyway, truth be told, all three assistants were planning another intervention. A small one. Sasha had been good, gradually more trusting over the last few weeks, the looming threat of losing Tim’s friendship and the surveillance footage seemed to have worked. They’d even gone out drinking a couple of weeks ago. Last week, though, Sasha seemed to have reverted. She was cagey, distant, suspicious and they all agreed that they should give her a reminder. Well, Jon hadn’t, he’d insisted it was time to get Elias involved. Well, Jon wasn’t here now so it might be the perfect time to speak with her about it. Once they got to the bottom of what this meeting was really about.

Tim’s face was impassive, immobile through the whole tape. Now, the corner of his mouth twitches downwards, and he says, “I assume this has something to do with Jon not being invited to this secret meeting?”

Martin’s stomach drops. Surely, surely not. The only answer Sasha gives is to replace the tape and press play. The voice of Melanie King starts:

_“Who was that new guy?”_

_“Sorry? What new guy?”_

_“Tall, heterochromia. Er… blond-ish?”_

_“Oh, that’s Jon. He’s not new. I could have sworn you two-”_

_“You’ve got two Jons?”_

_“No, no. Just the one. He argued about ghosts with you, I think.”_

_“I argued with_ a _Jon about ghosts, not that guy. He was really scrawny. Short. I think he was Indian but I didn’t ask.”_

_“That doesn’t ring a bell.”_

_“What? So there was just some random guy in your archives picking fights?”_

_“No, I remember you and our Jon having an argument about ghosts. The guy that brought you in. Unless you had two-”_

_“Right. I don't know what you’re playing at but-”_

Sasha clicks the tape off, looking at them expectantly. Martin’s brain is filled with buzzing, he glances over at Tim who is chewing the inside of his cheek. There is a long silence, save for the blood in Martin’s ears, before Tim says, “So, you think Jon is one of these things-”

“NotThem,” Sasha interjects.

“Right…” Tim switches his crossed legs over, “How long?”

“You can’t seriously-” Martin stops when Tim raises a silent hand, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on Sasha. Fine. Hear her out, then remind her how paranoid she’s being. Let her know they’ll go to Elias if she doesn’t keep it together.

“Well,” Sasha shuffles files on her desk, “If the table in artifact storage is the same one from Amy Patel’s statement-” She opens up the case file “-And this thing _lives_ in the table, or maybe the table is part of it. Like the doors are part of Michael… Either way, if the table has something to do with it, then I guess, Jon could have been, well, NotJon-ed any time he’s been in artifact storage sit arrived.”

“You realise that’s a, what? A seven month window? Eight?” Martin asks incredulously, “Honestly I think -if anything’s happened to Jon, which I don’t think it has. But, If something has happened we can probably narrow it down, because me and Jon have only been dating for four months. Five. So, if anything happened it would have been after that, right? I mean-” Martin lets out a high pitched sound he’d meant to be a laugh, “Why would a monster want a boyfriend?”

“You took all our statements after Prentiss, didn’t you? On tape.” Tim asks Sasha.

“Yes. His voice sounded the same, but-”

“That’s it then,” Martin says because that’s it. There’s no overlap there. No way that Jon isn’t Jon. “Just some woman who’s met him once misremembering.”

“I’m sorry Martin,” Sasha says sincerely, “But I can’t- there’s just enough here that I need, well, I need something concrete. From before the table.”

“No,” Martin shakes his head, getting up from his chair. He cannot believe this. That Sasha would - that _Tim_ would think that he’s been… “Sasha, you’re been paranoid again. Really, this is a whole new level. Tim, you can’t let her- you can’t play into this… this delusion she has.”

“Martin,” Tim’s voice is stern. Cold. Nothing like Martin’s ever heard him speak before. “I know. I don’t want to believe it. I can’t imagine how much you don’t want to, but I,” He pauses, considering, “had an experience. Something similar. Not the same, it didn’t _change_ him but… It wore his skin. Pretended to be him. If it’s a possibility something even remotely similar is happening here I think I need to check.”

Martin’s hands hurt from how hard their balled into fists. His neck aches with the tension in it. Tim’s story is terrible, what happened is horrific but it’s not what’s happened to Jon. Nothing has happened to Jon. Jon is fine and they’re supposed to go out tomorrow night and it’s going to be lovely because nothing has happened to him. Martin tries to swallow, but his mouth is full of dust, “I- you two do whatever it is you need to do. This is ridiculous. He’s not been replaced, or skinned, or _anything._ Jon’s fine. I-I’m going home.”

“Martin.” Sasha says but he’s already turned and walked out the door. She might have called again, louder but Martin doesn’t care. He’s going home. He doesn’t even take time to grab any of the files he was going to work on this weekend, just grabs his coat and marches up the stairs. He’s almost at the foyer when he sees a silhouette moving about in a side room. No one else is usually in this late. Martin knows, he used to live here for four months. He peaks in, curious and more than a little spooked. Just checking who it is.

“Jon?”

* * *

It’s cold out in the spring night air. And damp. It’s not raining now, but it has been recently and the cursory swipe Martin made at the bench he and Jon are sitting on now only got rid of so much water so now they’re both shivering with water soaking into their trousers. Martin eyes the orange styrofoam box between them. There’s plenty of chips left but Martin can’t find a single one he can eat, thanks to Jon. Well Jon and the Kebab man who - when Jon disgustingly asked for mayonnaise because apparently Martin’s got feelings for an animal - decided to squirt mayonnaise over every inch of the chips. There were a few that didn’t get utterly destroyed in the spray that Martin’s already picked over. Now Jon just slowly and absently munches on cooling chips, staring out into the street, babbling at length about tardigrades and Martin’s fairly content to just watch him.

“They have actually been known to go up to thirty years with no food which I think is...” Jon trails off, noticing Martin’s soft stare, “What?”

“Nothing,” Martin’s had a gentle blush going on for a while now and he’s surprised it doesn’t overwhelm his face now, “Just listening.”

Jon looks stricken suddenly, “Sorry. You don’t want to hear about, uh, this. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine, it was,” Martin tries to reassure him but truth be told he wasn’t actually listening, “it was nice. Hearing you talk. Y’know.”

Jon ducks away. He looks back up at Martin through his eyelashes and Martin has to swallow down the part of him that wants to call Jon beautiful. “Thank you, but… I’d like if we talked, not just me rambling. I want to talk to you. This has been very nice.”

Yeah, it has. It’s been more than nice and maybe now he and Jon can be friends. Actual friends, not coworkers who, well Jon openly despised him or that’s what Martin had thought, but maybe he was just like that. Maybe they were already friends and that was just Jon. Martin can’t pinpoint a moment where Jon seemed to start tolerating him or even start liking him just suddenly in the middle of hating him he had been kind enough to give Martin a place to stay. That in mind, he says to Jon, “I don’t know if I really thanked you enough for the cot.”

“You have,” Jon says dryly, “It’s just a cot, Martin.”

Martin hums. Maybe.

“Are you…” Jon fixes him with as firm a stare as he can manage, then he blinks and shakes his head, “No, sorry. Not really an appropriate question.”

“No, go ahead,” Martin would love to answer any personal questions Jon could ask, “That’s the fun of getting drunk I think. Asking inappropriate questions. I won’t answer if I don’t want to.”

“I-uh,” Jon starts, nods, clears his throat and tries again, “Are you, well, It’s just I thought I saw that you -on your bag. It was, you left your bag at work a few weeks ago and so the next day you brought a different bag it looked like... Had pins on it.”

Martin remembers, he’d needed something to carry his lunch so he fished out some old bag from when he was nineteen and very into pin collecting. He can’t quite see where this could be going, unless Jon wants to talk about old fallout boy albums. “What about it?”

“Erm, well... Are you gay?” Jon asks, intense stare back. Oh. That was not where Martin had thought this was going. There was one pin from, probably his first pride. Just a round rainbow badge, he’d completely forgotten that was even on there.

“Er, yeah. Why? That’s not-” He cuts himself off. No, it’s not a problem. He got so used to apologising for it when he was younger, still feels like he is when his mother looks at him and he thinks that maybe she’d like him more if he wasn’t. Doesn’t matter. Plus, if Jon had any kind of problem surely he would have had a problem with Tim who is a lot louder about his sexuality.

“Just, uh, just curious. Just seems like a lot of us.”

Us. Martin’s heart is loud and hard in his chest. Us. Us; one’s self included. Martin can hardly see Jon through the sheer vibration that fills his skin and he tries to keep himself steady. Keep his voice even, “O-oh, yeah? Are you..?”

“Bi, actually,” and is it just him or is Jon staring at him with the same frantic, nervous intensity that he’s staring at Jon with? “Don’t tell Tim. I think if he, well, if he knew he might insist on some sort of secret club.”

“Not sure anything’s secret with him,” Martin muses.

“No, I suppose not,” Jon smiles and Martin’s chest is a raging inferno. A big, roaring bonfire of light and heat and _warmth_. “Do you…” Jon’s voice is so soft and tentative, “Do you want to walk me home?”

“Y-yeah,” Martin’s throat is so full of his heart it almost catches the words, “Probably shouldn’t be walking home on your own. I probably should, just to be safe.”

“You can stay. O-on the couch. So you don’t have to take the bus back,” Jon looks like he wants to touch Martin but isn’t quite sure where, “You know, it’s getting late.”

“It is,” Martin agrees and he is maybe, just a little bit, in love.

* * *

“Jon, what are you doing back?” Martin asks, stepping into the side room. It looks like a research room, and Jon’s just sat down at one of the desks like nothing’s amiss. Martin’s a little on edge as he walks closer, but this is Jon, even if the others don’t think so. 

“Just getting some work done. I was hoping to have nothing else on my mind when I see you tomorrow, I am almost done if you’d like me to walk you home?” Jon smiles - all teeth.

“N-no it’s fine,” Martin shakes his head, “You keep working. I wanted to - I just need to clear my head a bit. Long day.”

“Mm,” Jon agrees, “If you’re sure.”

Martin doesn’t make any move to leave. He wants to go home but there’s a nagging voice that sounds like Melanie King, and Tim, and Sasha and it’s screaming at him to investigate. To be certain. He is certain but he needs proof, not for himself, for them. For the voice of all three of them yelling at him. He shuffles his feet a little, “Sorry, um, I need to ask-” Are you a monster that’s stolen the identity of the real Jonathan Sims and now none of us can remember what the real Jon looked like except, apparently, Melanie king? “W-why did you ask me out? Sorry, I know that sounds insecure, I just meant I thought we were sort of dancing around it a while and then all of a sudden you finally do it. Why?”

Jon stands from his chair, easily closing the distance between them with his long even strides. “I guess I was just sick of waiting,” Jon’s hands settle on Martin’s waist, pulling him in for a soft, slow kiss. It’s tender, so gentle there’s no way this isn’t Jon. When they break apart, Jon says, low and unhurried, “I love you.”

Martin wants to say it back but the words aren’t there. He thinks he loved the version of Jon in his head, but the real Jon? He won't lie, but he still feels bad saying it, “I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m quite there yet.”

“That’s alright,” And Jon looks happy about it for some reason, “It’s okay. We have all the time in the world.”

“Yeah,” Martin melts into Jon’s touch. Who cares about evidence? This is Jon.

The phone in his pocket starts to buzz, Martin shoots Jon an apologetic look and he breaks away to answer it, “Hello?”

“Martin,” It’s Sasha, “Martin. We broke into Jon’s desk. There were tapes inside-”

“You what?” Martin hisses, afraid Jon can hear what Sasha is saying, but he just stands there, waiting for Martin to finish up

“Tapes, in his desk-” Which is absolutely not what Martin asked, “They’re the ones that went missing, after Prentiss. You need to hear these.”

“Sasha, just because you’ve convinced yourself-”

_“I’m fine, Sasha. Just a scratch really. Let’s just get this down now. Martin didn’t wait before giving his statement.”_

The voice on the other end doesn’t ring any bells, but the words do. That’s Jon’s statement. Given to Sasha about his encounter with Michael. Martin’s blood runs cold and he looks over to Jon, who is just smiling at him, pleasantly amused. 

“Martin,” It’s Tim this time, “Me and Sasha are going to head to Artifact Storage. Meet us there. We’re going to break that table open. We’re going to kill that thing.”

“They’re going to break the table?” Jon asks, shark-like grin warping his face. There’s ice in Martin’s veins, in his stomach, running down his back. Not Jon. That’s not Jon. And not Jon wanted them to break the table open. 

“Tim!” Martin yells into his phone but the line’s already dead. The phone falls out of his numb and shaking hand and onto the carpet. He takes a step back but Jon isn’t advancing, he’s just standing there his mouth stretching impossibly wider, revealing more teeth than a human mouth can hold. Not Jon. It’s not Jon. Martin’s back meets the doorframe and it takes all he has not to slide down to the floor, hugging his knees, “W-what did you do to Jon?”

“I am Jon,” The thing says, concern in its voice but not its face, “Martin. Are you feeling alright?”

“I-Please. Please, what did you do to him?” Martin begs and the thing takes its first step towards him.

“Martin, what’s gotten into you? Don’t you recognise me?” Its tone is sincere but Martin can feel the mocking glint in its eyes - one blue and one brown. And Martin has a sick, horrible thought that twists his stomach. He can’t let this thing leave. He can’t let it live, and he’s got to stop it before Tim and Sasha break that table. Martin doesn’t know what will happen when that table breaks but he needs to kill this thing before he finds out.

His palms are slick with sweat when he pushes off the wall, yelling loud enough he hopes Tim and Sasha can hear. Will come to investigate if this goes wrong. He launches himself at the Thing, sending them both tumbling to the ground. He’s on top of it and his ideas run out here. He needs to kill it. He needs something to kill it.

“Martin?” It asks as though it’s afraid, “What are you doing?”

“Shut up!” He yells and his hands wrap around its throat. Martin’s going to be sick. He’s going to be sick. He presses as hard as he can.

“M..ar..tin,” It rasps clawing at his hands.

“Stop it!” Martin sobs. Tears dripping down his face, “Stop it. Just die.”

It bucks, hard enough that Martin’s hands fly off its neck and to either side of it’s head. NotJon shoves him hard in the chest and Martin tips backward, letting the Thing scramble out from under him. He just manages to grip its ankle and tug before it can get away. It looks less smug now, swinging a fist at Martin’s face he can't quite dodge, sending him sprawling on the carpet. They’re both panting, Martin clutching his stinging cheek and rising to his feet, and the Thing hunched against the wall.

Something heavy. Martin’s eyes scan the desk he’s using to steady himself. Anything heavy. There’s a lamp that seems too light, a plant pot that might break, and a large glass paperweight that might work. Martin grabs it, desperately not thinking about what he’s going to do, and advances on Jon. Not Jon.

The Thing pretending to be Jon’s eyes go wide, scrambling to stand, but Martin’s on top of him, heavy glass dome clutched in his hand. It tries begging, “Please, Martin. I don’t know what’s happening. What are you doing? Please, don’t-”

It doesn’t get to finish. Martin brings his hand down on its skull with a horrible crack and the thing goes boneless on the floor. For a second Martin thinks it could be over, then it groans, trying to move again. Martin’s arms shake violently, his knees wanting to lock when he moves robotically back on top of Jon, his fingers finding those same bruises on Jon’s neck. Not Jon. It’s not Jon. He squeezes, and thick, fat tears splash onto Jon’s purpling face. Not Jon.

Even when the thing goes limp in his grip Martin doesn’t stop, he just keeps pressing down into the Thing while the sobs wrack his body and he waits. Waits for some sign that this really wasn’t Jon, but every second that passes just brings more doubt. Maybe the voice was Jon’s, just distorted through the tape and his phone. Maybe it was some sick prank Tim and Sasha pulled, getting a friend to re-record Jon’s statement. Maybe he’d just hallucinated the whole thing.

But then the throat in his hands begins to elongate, stretching along with the other limbs. The Thing’s face distorts, mouth sagging open in a shapeless hole, it’s eyes growing wide and black and the one brown eye popping clean out of the socket, forced out by it’s replacement. The eye rolls onto the floor, sticking to the carpet and Martin is sick. Violently. He manages to get most of it in a waste paper basket at the end of a desk but now he is just sat on a monstrous corpse, shaking and crying. He’s done it.

He’s fucking done it.

* * *

“I shouldn’t have offered you that cot,” Jon says matter of factly as he unlocks his door. Jon’s flat looks small but rather nice, he’s got a fair bit more plants than Martin would have expected, though they all seem in need of a good watering. Jon leads them through into a tiny living room. Martin’s confident now that Jon could have gotten himself home if he had needed to. The cold and the chips seemed to have sobered him up significantly, or at least helped him find his legs.

“You made it here fine,” Martin says, but there is a part of him that tries to imagine them staying in the archives together, maybe having a few more drinks now that Jon’s eaten something. Spending the night squashed in that cot together. Jon was probably not thinking about that, he was probably just regretting having to come home. “But, if you do want it back then, I mean, I can-”

“No,” Jon’s tone is firm. He sits down on his couch, gesturing for Martin to do the same, “No. I-I don’t want it back. It was my fault. Prentiss. If I hadn’t been… I shouldn’t have, well,” Jon can’t seem to find the words..

Yes, he might have been why Martin went back to Carlos Vittery’s apartment again, Jon’s insistence that the case belonged in the discredited section. Even the fact the man was covered in _web_ when he died did nothing for Jon, so Martin had gone back to find something to prove that it was supernatural. He hadn’t thought to blame Jon at all. Of course he hadn’t. But Jon seems to have decided that he was guilty anyway.

“It’s not your fault,” Martin says, because it isn’t.

“Martin, I shouldn’t have been so…” Jon sighs, shaking his head, “I know the case was odd. Spider webs and all, but I didn’t want to think… I couldn’t accept it could be real. Of course, there isn’t any actual evidence, really. Just because Jane Prentiss was-”

“Jon,” Martin warns, “You don’t think any of the cases are real.”

“I…” Jon pauses for a long time, worrying his lip between his teeth. He shakes his head, “No. I don’t. But, well... I don’t like spiders.”

Martin chuckles at the understatement, “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind. Won’t go investigating any more ghost spiders.”

“Very funny,” Jon rolls his eyes and lays back into the couch, “You can stay here.”

“I thought I was?”

“No,” Jon says again, clearly having a hard time articulating himself. Maybe he’s not as sober as Martin had first thought, “I should have- sooner. You shouldn’t have to live in the archives. That’s what I meant. I shouldn’t have offered the cot, I should have offered you stay here. Take the couch. Or my bed, and I’ll-”

“Thank you. Jon. But,” Martin feels the pull, the temptation to just say yes. To stay the night, to stay the next. To lean down right now, to stay in Jon’s bed tonight. With him. To kiss him, to kiss him and keep kissing and wake up next to him and kiss him again. But Jon’s drunk, or even if he’s sobered up he’s not sober. And little as Martin did drink he does still feel it in his fingers and his lips and can feel it clouding his brain. There’s a line somewhere between sober and drunk and it’s impossible to tell where Jon is on that line, if Jon will regret the offer in the morning or if he just needed the confidence to ask. And Martin can’t tell how a kiss would be received, if Jon reciprocates at all. The offer could just be kindness, or guilt. A kiss could be met with confusion, anger, with Martin sitting alone on a night bus to the insitute and to a sexual harassment complaint on Monday. “I think I’ll just take the couch tonight. I’ll head back in the morning.”

Jon seems to deflate, but he nods and Martin knows he’s made the right choice. Or he thinks he knows. The fire burns bright as ever- brighter possibly, because it hurts. It burns hot and bright and aching in his chest.

* * *

Martin scrambles to his phone. With his shaking fingers it takes a few tries just to unlock it, a few more to actually hit the call button. It barely rings once before there’s an answer, “Martin! Where are you? We won’t wait much longer.”

“T-Tim. I killed it. I killed it,” He’s rambling. The words -the explanations in his head are turning to mush before they reach his mouth, “It’s dead. It wanted- it’s dead now, but it wanted the table. It was bound, or chained, or something-”

“Slow down, buddy,” TIm sounds worried. More than. “What do you mean you killed it?”

Distantly he can hear a thump over the phone, but he presses on. Trying to make the words make sense. To come out in the right order before they pass his lips, “Jon. Not Jon. The- I- it wanted. I had to, before you and Sasha let it free. It wanted you t-to break the table. It wanted it so I had to-”

“Where are you?” Sasha’s voice comes clear as Tim’s. He must be on speaker, “Are you sure it’s dead?”

Martin lets out a shaky breath, looks over the corpse, the eye. He’s going to be sick again, “Yes. It’s dead. I’m still- still in the building.”

The thump comes again, louder this time and Martin can hear the two whispering to each other.

_“What was that?”_

_“Is that coming from…?”_

“What’s going on?” He asks, rising to his feet on gelatin legs.

_“Oh my god. I-I think… you don’t-”_

“Martin get down here,” Tim demands, “I think there’s someone in the table.”

Martin’s mouth is dry and he doesn’t dare hope, but the words are out of his mouth already, “Do you think it’s-”

“Either that, or there’s another Thing in there.” 

Martin’s not sure which one of them hangs up.

It’s a long walk to artifact storage. It shouldn’t be, but with the way Martin tilts and his feet drag beneath him, it is. The whole of his body is numb and buzzing like he’s filled with bees. It’s a wonder he even remembers the way with all the noise. Sasha and Tim are talking in loud whispers inside. Martin opens the door.

Sasha hovers over Tim while he props another man up into a sitting position. The man - Jon? - looks like Melanie described. Short, more than scrawny - starved, emaciated - and if Martin were to guess, probably Indian heritage, and Martin doesn’t recognise him at all. There was a hope he didn’t even realise he’d had that, that with the Thing dead he’d remember. Things would go back, his memories would come back. When he pictures Jonathan Sims, he still sees that unblinking grin.

“Martin?” Comes the croak of a voice that sounds just enough like the one on the tape. Enough that Martin is sure this must be him. He’s got one deep, rich brown eye open. The other shut, the lid concave over an empty socket, “Martin. You… thank you.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say so he just kneels down next to him and lets the man’s long spindly fingers grasp his own.

“Jon,” Sasha’s soft voice comes from above them, “ **What happened?** ”

“It was during Prentiss’s attack,” Jon begins. It’s odd to see someone who looks like Jon - tired, hungry, traumatised - give his statement so coherently. His voice sounds painful in his throat as he describes the feeling of having his eye gouged out, of being forced into the hollow of the table. What it was like to sit in the dark and be forced to watch everything through the eye that thing had taken from him, “I don’t know how, but I could hear. I could still hear everything. I had to watch, and I tried - I tried not to. I tried to look away, or to close my eye but, well, it was my eye, but not my eyelid.”

It’s awkward. Invasive. Martin feels like he’s intruding just sitting here and listening to this stranger’s statement. To hold this man’s hand while he recounts every terrible moment of the last six months.

“...And I then heard it. My voice. From Martin’s phone, one of the old tapes was playing and I realised you’d found them. You knew it wasn’t me, but you thought the table was part of it, that you could hurt it through the table. I tried to scream for the first time in weeks, tried to warn you, but just like every other time, no one could hear me. Someone had bound it to the table and it if you’d have broken it,” Jon gulps, “I don’t think… I wouldn’t have been there. I don’t know where I’d be.”

Jon takes a moment, squeezing Martin’s limp hand before he starts again, “M-Martin was with it, and the Thing it, it smiled. Martin knew what it wanted so he… so he…” Jon looks on the verge of tears, “I felt it. Thank you. Thank you, but I couldn’t breathe and it hurt and I thought I was going to die. I was sure I would die with it. Thought it would finally be over, but then, I could breathe again, and I couldn’t see. I could breathe and I could hear voices outside - yours. Tim and Sasha. I tried to make noise, and even though no one had heard me in so long, I had a feeling it would work this time. That I could finally be heard. And I guess I could.”

It’s like some invisible string pulling the story out of him is suddenly cut, and he - Jon, sinks further into Tim’s side, breathing hard and fast. Martin doesn’t know what to do, he’s utterly, hopelessly lost here watching this man lay there gasping. His mind feels distant, far away and normally he’d be fretting right now over whether to call an ambulance, or where the man would stay because clearly he can’t be living on his own right now. But all he can do is sit and watch him while Tim and Sasha speak about all that.

All he can do is wonder if this was the man he’d thought was beautiful or if that man never existed.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed, chapter two should hopefully be much shorter and just a little aftermath thing.  
> I'm on tumblr under the same name, @zlicxn if you wanna say hi


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